


Caliborn ==> Freak Out

by twii2ted_8333335



Series: Homestuck Sexcanons [8]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Exhibitionism, Humanstuck, In Public, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Odd, Public Hand Jobs, Public Nudity, elevator shenanigans, semi-public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twii2ted_8333335/pseuds/twii2ted_8333335
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No need to say it twice. You're freaking out more than you need to right now. You definitely remember now why you take the stairs up to apartment rooms, no matter how high up they are. There's just something about elevator music that appeals to you. It soothes you, helps you relax, turns you on far more than you care to admit; it's all the usual elevator shenanigans that you don't generally like dealing with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caliborn ==> Freak Out

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. That's all I can say   
> Based off [this](http://homestucksexcanons.tumblr.com/post/90178297851) headcanon   
> Odd as the headcanon is

No need to say it twice. You're freaking out more than you need to right now. You definitely remember now why you take the stairs up to apartment rooms, no matter how high up they are. There's just something about elevator music that appeals to you. It soothes you, helps you relax, turns you on far more than you care to admit; it's all the usual elevator shenanigans that you don't generally like dealing with. 

The doors ding open a few floors before the middle floor, and you stare wide eyed at the man who walks in. He's the man you're coming to visit, half a head taller than you, grinning small and knowing at you. The elevator doors slide shut behind him, and he presses the highest floor number button — and every one in-between too. 

"I thought you'd forgotten about coming over. I was just on my way out to head to your place. Now I won't have to." He strides over to you as the elevator takes you up to the next floor. The music plays on, unintentionally reminds you to tug your shirt down a little in a feeble attempt to cover up the growing bulge in your pants. It probably won't help since acknowledging it just brings attention to it, but worse come to worse he'll chalk that up to you being excited to see him. 

He places his hands on either side of you, hunched over slightly so your foreheads are pressed together, the looser golden brown strands of his hair brushing over your face. The elevator bell dings again and you feel the new air enter as the door _whooshes_ open. You shiver from the slight chill, and that has to trigger him because he kisses you abruptly, one of his hands pushing into your hair. You grasp onto the back of his shirt, your arms slung over his shoulders, and you kiss him back with all you can. Adrenaline pumps through your veins between the risk of getting caught and the gentle lull of music beneath the sound of your heavy breaths. 

Sooner than you can register, you've passed another two floors. Your legs are wrapped tightly around Orpheus' waist, ankles crossed, hips pressed up towards him. Your hands have long since moved to grip at his hair, the strands just long enough to slip through your fingers and brush the one below. It's a small detail, as small as the elevator music, and it distracts you long enough for him to detach from your lips and reattach to your neck, right at this sensitive spot by your jaw. He sucks once and you're gone. You moan, loud and long and you realize that you just can't take it. You need him _now_.

"Being a little loud, aren't you, boy?" He mutters against your skin between the nips and sucks and you moan again, too loud, too much. The elevator doors shut as you hear another door open, likely a resident wondering what dumb ass can't keep it in his pants long enough to get to a room. "You might want to keep it down. We'll get caught at this rate. Unless... you want that?" 

You don't even know your name right now; what makes him think you know if you want _that_? You have _the_ most confused boner. 

"This wouldn't be such ah — " You hate him for not stopping while you're talking. He's holding you up with one arm but his other is trying to work off your shirt. You hate him for distracting you by getting distracted, running his fingers over your skin, the little ripples of muscles that you're proud to have, the peaks that your nipples have become from all this stimulus. "This wouldn't be such a problem if we were in your fucking room!" You say it all in one breath so you know he heard you before you started up again with the keening noises and presses of the body. He responds back to you eagerly, shifting you until your hips are grinding up against each other. You think you've officially stopped breathing. 

"Hurry — the hell up — or we'll really get caught." You took a moment to think about it and you really didn't care at this point. You didn't have to live here. You didn't have to face people who knew you and explain to them why you were getting off with a guy ten years younger than you in the elevator. At least it's legal — you turned 26 last month so it's definitely legal.

Orpheus forces you to stand on your own two feet again, and you inhale sharply as he doesn't miss a beat in working your pants off. They pool around your ankles, heavy on your feet. Your toes curl a little in your shoes as he follows suit. You've done this before, and more, and yet you still can't help but feel warm in the face and look away when he pulls down your underwear and his own. Before him, the worst you'd ever done with anyone was a kiss to the cheek in public. Before him, you were like a 24 oz bottle of extra virgin olive oil. 

Oh, well, that's definitely an image. You make a sound in your throat that has Orpheus grinning and moving a little quicker to grab that stupid little bottle from his pants pocket. You hate seeing it so much; your cheeks are already heating up to a nice cherry red, you can feel it. You should probably just paint red circles onto your cheeks before going out with him. They'll be there eventually no matter what you do. 

He resumes kissing you, his hands working at your erections. You have no idea how he can manage to multitask like this when you can barely get enough air into your lungs. You're going to die here, clutching onto Orpheus' shirt so hard you could rip the fabric if you wanted to. You are going to die if he keeps stroking you with those slow glides of his hand, eased by that stupid wannabe liquid in a tube. You're going to die before you can even orgasm if he touches that spot under the head of your dick again because holy shit. Your vision blanked for a few minutes. 

He has huge hands. They're proportioned to him, not too big to be considered out of place, but on you they're huge and overwhelming and literally perfect for wrapping around both your dicks and just _tugging_. And then he presses his hips to yours, just a slow encouraging grind and you lose it. You're just so utterly gone now. You don't care who hears you moaning out his name, or who sees you arching and grinding up against his body like a thirty dollar whore. As long as he does not stop until you're both done, you have no cares about what others think or say. Zero cares. None.

Between his hand and his hips and his lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck from earlier, you know you aren't going to last. All the foreplay, all the adrenaline and excitement and nerves from the idea of being caught, it's all adding up. It's making the room hotter and hotter, and your breath is making it hot, and you swear you hear Orpheus speaking some other language against your skin. It's so hot and you're so close and you catch just a snippet of whatever tune is playing in the elevator with you guys now right towards the end. There's so much going on that you don't even know what pushes you over the edge. You think it's the music or maybe whatever foreign thing Orpheus was whispering because hot _damn_. 

When you come back to a clearer state of reality, Orpheus is kissing rather lightly at your neck and your face. You know you're both finished and you know you're both completely messed up appearance wise but you still can't bring yourself to care. You're covered in sweat and other really gross fluids that you never want to think about after this but you care even less than you did before your orgasm. 

You hum in tune to the music as the elevator brings you back down to the floor you needed in the first place. Orpheus murmurs a few more apparently French words to you, and you make a mental note to record him later to true and figure out what exactly he's telling you. He could be calling you a cheap bitch for all you know, not that that sounds like him but people say all sorts of weird dirty talk. Who are you to judge? It sounded sexy all the same. 

You both very awkwardly shuffle back to his room and very carefully clean up and get changed. You steal one of his shirts to wear and only put on your boxers beneath. You think he might jump you again with the way his eyes look you up and down when you walk past him on the couch, but he just pulls you onto his lap and turns the TV on to some random channel. You don't recognize it and he starts kissing you half way through the show so for what feels like the tenth time, you just don't care. 

You wind up falling asleep there with him on the couch, both of you just tangled up in each other like worn out snakes. You don't wake up until it's getting darker outside and you hear one familiar elevator related tune coming from the television. 

"Time to give you your own surprise. Wake up time, Orpheus." 

This is going to be such a fun game.

**Author's Note:**

> This is so self indulgent it's not even funny   
> You can tell which parts I just stopped trying on but still  
> I am hella in love with how this turned out 
> 
>  
> 
> _guys please help this ship has taken me over again_


End file.
